Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Closing in on the stables, his horse let out a whinny, and as its mates answered from the paddock, Kane’s eyes went unto the glow of his manse. The welcoming yellow light of countless oil lamps streamed from out of the windowpanes on all floors, sunshine upon the frosted grounds.
His blood quickened upon the approach. His heart jumped. His soul smiled.
His dominant hand left the reins and double-checked that his saddlebag had held with constancy its contents.
His errand had been in service to a special request from his shellan. Of late, she had had trouble sleeping, and the sachet of lavender and herbs had been ordered by the village healer to help her rest more easily.
What a pleasure to do something for his female.
Traversing the rear stone wall of the gardens, he proceeded unto the stable. The horses were kept downwind of the manor, the architect of the estate having considered the prevailing wind direction as well as the natural buffers of a rise and fall of the terrain with regard to the placement. More whinnies percolated into the night, and beneath him, his steed began to prance.
Someone else was glad to return home.
The stable facility was open at both ends, and the oil lamps suspended down the center aisle of the stalls cast another lot of warm, inviting illumination. Pulling up on the reins, he dismounted as his stallion jogged in place and threw its head. With Kane’s boots on the ground, he drew the horse into the—
No stable hand came forth.
“Tomy?” he called out.
Though there was much noise about, the chuffing and stamping in the stalls a chorus with which he was well familiar, the lack of a response turned to silence the sounds.
“Tomy.” Wrapping the reins through an eyelet, Kane raised his voice. “Where are you…?”
He stopped. Looked over his shoulder. Sniffed the air.
A terrible feeling gathered within his ribs and he strode down the aisle.
The tack room was at the fore of the stable, and in addition to housing the saddles and bridles and other provisions of an equestrian nature, Tomy’s private subterranean quarters were entered through its narrow confines.
The door to the steps that descended into the earth was closed. Was the keeper of horses ill or injured?
Knocking upon the panels, Kane then wrenched them open. “Tomy?”
From the darkness below, there came no reply. There was no scent of occupation, either.
Forcing himself to remain calm, Kane strode away, passing by the saddles upon their posts, and the tendrils of leathers with their bits, and the wooden buckets. All was familiar, and yet he was abruptly lost.
At the head of the stables, he looked out to the manor house and took solace in how undisturbed it all appeared. Further, he reminded himself that there were countless reasons why a busy stable hand would be away from his position. A fence repair. A hay bale delivery. A coyote upon the fringes of the paddocks, requiring dispatch.
Whye’er would one be concerned?
Alas, he knew the answer to that. He had had so much good fortune e’er since he arrived in Caldwell. Too much. Surely the scale must be righted.
When the rest of the household was abed and asleep, that worry kept him awake—and now this. No Tomy. Which was unheard of.
Bracing his body, Kane forced himself not to run unto the manor, but rather course up the walking path as if his mind had not gone immediately, and perhaps with paranoia, to matters of calamity and death. On his approach, his eyes penetrated each window of his grand home and traversed its exterior expanse from footing to roofline, from cornerstone to opposite terminal. The formal structure was a sprawl of rooms, two wings flanking a generous central feature of three stories, and as the silk drapes had all been parted to let in the beauty of the moonlit night, he searched the interior for signs of proper disruption.
When there were no figures moving about at all, he reached to the small of his back. For personal protection, he carried always an ornate, bejeweled dagger, although as an aristocrat, he was not well trained with it.
Yet Cordelhia was within.
He needed to protect her.
Walking around to the front door, he found that the sturdy panels were open, and he knew that some of the doors were also wide on the rear of the house as there was the draw of a breeze coming at his back and no scents greeting his nose.
Dearest Virgin Scribe, they had been robbed.
Tightening his grip on the dagger’s hilt, his hand trembled, and he hated his fine breeding and all his years of education and social leisure. He should have found a training camp and hardened himself—
He placed his free palm upon the honed wood of the door, and pushed the weight further forth.
“Cordelhia?” he called out. “Balen?”